


Bad Moon Rising

by quartetship



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Blood, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Multi, Polyamory, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 12:13:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10990722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quartetship/pseuds/quartetship
Summary: I see a bad moon rising...I see trouble on the wayDon't go 'round tonight.It's bound to take your life...There's a bad moon on the rise.





	Bad Moon Rising

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lyxari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyxari/gifts).



> So this monstrous thing is a commission from a thousand years ago that is finally getting on its feet. Please check all tags before reading, and understand that you absolutely will encounter dark and heavy themes here. If that's fine by you, then enjoy, and please remember to let me know what you think as you go!
> 
> \--

Static. Electronic beeps and whistles, and the ear-splitting sparks of something broken beyond repair. Then - silence. 

Lance thumped his open hand against the side of his helmet. Wandering the halls of an abandoned Galra ship had not been his idea, but he didn't think he'd have to worry about getting injured on a rescue mission. All he had to do was comb the perimeter he was assigned for prisoners, use Pidge’s codes to disable any security systems he encountered, and make a loop back to the meeting point. Simple stuff. 

It made the fact that he had fallen through a damaged floor and into the oversized ventilation pipes of the ship all the more embarrassing. 

Hauling himself back up to the main floor, Lance bemoaned the loss of his back jets. Try as he might, he couldn't get them to fire, any more than he could get his communicator to pick up or broadcast a signal to the others. Perhaps it was just as well; if they knew he'd busted up his gear on a simple assignment, he wasn't sure they'd let him live it down for a while. 

Every room Lance passed was empty. Weapon drawn and ready as he could be, he cautiously peered around every corner, looked down every hallway, but saw nothing, save for equipment and weaponry littered throughout. It was as if all life that had once dwelled there had simply disappeared, both captors and prey. 

Moving quickly and quietly, he rounded the last corner, turning to head back the way he'd come. 

Galra ships were like mazes, in his experience. Lance could recall stories Shiro told of trying to memorize the patterns of twists and turns that led through the gigantic ships, only to lose his way each time. Anxiety prodded at the edges of his consciousness as he thought about the fear and resignation in Shiro’s voice, about the fact that he was only freed by way of assistance from someone inside. 

Lance could not be certain that he would have the same luck, even with help. 

It was that sort of thinking that followed Lance down the halls and corridors as he moved back toward the meeting place he and the others had agreed on. By the time he reached the largest hall, he assumed he would be running into Hunk or Keith at any moment, but as he kept walking he heard nothing, saw no one. Was he in the right place? Did he make a mistake? 

Silently, his fears began to feed on his uncertainty. 

He remembered the plan Shiro had put in place before they parted ways to cover the whole of the ship. He was headed for the area where the Galra would have once piloted the ship. Pidge was to make her way to the control panels. Keith and Hunk were to work together, to destroy every piece of communication equipment that couldn't be used on the castle ship. And Lance? 

Lance was wandering alone, down an empty sector of an empty ship that had probably been that way for months. 

He wondered as he wandered - was that part of Shiro's plan? Was he just out of the way of the others, given something to do to keep busy while they made useful headway? Fingers tightening on his bayard as it returned to its small, circular form, he clenched his teeth, hoping against his better judgement that that was not the case. 

There were already far too many doubts that made home in his mind on any given day. Not that he had ever voiced them to any of the others; Lance's teammates were always too busy, too focused on more important matters. He didn't bother them with the trivialities of his fears. 

It wouldn't have mattered to any of them, anyway. 

The other paladins were remarkable, all forces of nature in their own ways that made them perfect for protecting the universe. Lance thought about each of them, a sad smile tugging at his lips as he walked closer to the wall, almost leaning against it. 

Keith. Fighter. Warrior. Soldier. 

Hunk. Strongman. Engineer. Defender. 

Pidge. Genius. Prodigy. Scientist.

Shiro. Leader. Champion. Hero.

What could Lance possibly bring to the table, save for a warm body to pilot the blue lion? His hands fumbled for purchase along the smooth wall behind him, trying to keep himself on his feet as his chest tightened and his vision began to darken at its edges. Harsh words cycled through his mind, echoing louder and louder until he could hear nothing else. 

Talentless. Useless. Superfluous. Lance could imagine a universe without himself in it, and could think of no way that anyone would be worse for it. 

Shaking, he let his head fall between his hands, clutching at his damaged helmet. The hammering of his pulse in his ears drowned every other sound for a moment, and the ship itself seemed to be in a tailspin as he crouched and fell against the wall, sliding to the floor. Despite his best efforts to regain his bearings, there was no controlling the spiral he was lost to, spinning out of reach of anything and anyone. 

When Lance was seized from both sides, it was almost comforting, grounding in the freefall of his mind. The hands holding him did not belong to any of his teammates; they ended in hooked, purple claws that clenched him too forcefully, even through his armor. In an instant Lance's focus returned, just long enough for him to realize what was happening as he was forced along between a group of alien strangers, and how little he could do to stop it. The taunting voices in his mind began to laugh, and he suddenly felt as powerless as he did pathetic. 

Without resistance, Lance let himself be led to a dark row of small, empty vessels, thrown inside one and forgotten. An engine fired, and his world moved beyond his control, tossing him back and forth as the tiny ship hurtled through space. It was difficult to breathe, impossible to move, and he couldn't summon the strength to cry out.

The movement continued, unyielding, and Lance wondered if perhaps he had simply been launched into the dark void of space.

Everything around him faded to black. 

\--

Lance could not be certain of how long he was imprisoned on the Galra ship. 

There was no way to mark the passage of time, no way to tell the days from the nights. In their heavy armor, it was hard to tell his guards apart and he began to wonder if Galra ever slept. Meals never came, so Lance was sure - even hopeful, to a point - that he would starve to death. 

He didn't, but he could feel the weight of his shackles pulling down on him, heavier every day as his strength slipped away. 

His feet were chained to the floor, with only a short length of slack with which to move. A heavy, metal collar clung to his neck, to which was affixed a pair of chains holding the shackles that bound his wrists. Moving more than a few inches at once was painful, laborious to the point of exhaustion, so after a short time, Lance simply stopped trying. He lay on the holding cell’s floor, willing the torment to end. 

At some point, he had been stripped of his helmet, and several pieces of his armor were gone as well. The fitted, black undersuit he wore beneath it all was still there, torn in places and clinging to cuts and scrapes in others. The smell of his own sweat repulsed him, and though he hated the way it felt on his skin, despised the way his tears burned as they trailed down his face, he was even more alarmed when they stopped falling. 

It was as if his entire being had simply gone numb. 

When the guards that seemed to dwell perpetually beyond the plasma screen of his tiny cell unlocked and opened it one day, Lance knew it might be his only opportunity to run. His muscles ached too much to heed his mind’s commands, however, and any chance he might have had at freedom was a moot point as he lay there on the floor, helpless, captive in his own body. 

The guards hauled him from the floor by his arms, pushing him onto his shaking legs and all but dragging him down a series of hallways. When they stopped at a grand set of double doors, Lance chanced a look upward despite the pain it caused in his shoulders and neck. One of the attendants at his side pressed their hand to a small screen, and then the doors were sliding apart, eerie violet light spilling from the vast, open room behind them. 

Lance was taken inside, pushed to his feet again and made to stand at the room’s center. Above him, up a small flight of stairs that led to an ovular platform was a large, single throne, surrounded on every side by panels of controls. At the helm, Zarkon - lord of the Galra empire and enemy of everything Lance knew to be good - looked down at him with piqued interest. 

“Paladin,” he growled by way of greeting, and Lance recoiled at the sound of his voice. Zarkon drew a deep, rumbling breath and chuckled, taking his time in looking Lance over. 

“You do not speak,” he observed after several moments of silence from Lance. It seemed to amuse him. “Why?” 

“I have nothing to say to you,” Lance spat. “Any of you.” He might have been captured, might be the weakest link in a team of incredible heroes, but he certainly wasn't about to be the one who broke beneath the pressure Zarkon’s presence. He raised his head as high as the heavy metal collar that hung from his neck would allow and snarled. “So you might as well kill me if you're planning to needle me for info. You're not getting a thing.” 

“There is no need for information, paladin. Nothing you could tell me would change my plans for your teammates and for this universe.” 

Lance felt his stomach twist in a painfully familiar way.  _ No need, _ Zarkon's voice repeated in his mind, the rest of his words fading into background murmurs. Even his team’s greatest enemy had no need for him. He was meaningless, even on the edge of death. 

“Then why am I here?!” he demanded, too tired of the feeling of balancing on the tightrope between living and not to care what might happen to him for it. “If I don't matter, then just kill me!” 

The guards at Lance's sides moved quickly, taking him to the ground and drawing their weapons, pausing only to wait for Zarkon's command to fire. Lance held his breath, mind racing too quickly to pray or cry out or contemplate escape. His only thoughts were of his family back home, of the team, and how they'd all be better off without him. 

Swallowing, he braced himself for a final, fatal strike. 

It never came. 

In its place was more dark, crackling laughter from Zarkon, a sound that set Lance's teeth on edge as he pried his eyes open to look up at him. 

“Nothing and no one in this universe truly matters, paladin,” said Zarkon. “Without power, nothing is useful. Without power, there is no purpose.” He folded his hands, a frightening smile cracking his face apart. Lance sneered back at him, determined to be defiant to the death, regardless of how small he felt at Zarkon's feet. It only worsened when the evil ruler rose to stand. 

“But I can give you power,” he said, and Lance couldn't stop the way his face turned up toward him. Zarkon descended the shallow staircase, hand outstretched to prevent the guards from interfering as he came to stand right in front of where Lance had fallen. He knelt then, a hand reaching out to take Lance's face and cup it in his clawed grasp, forcing him to look up, to make eye contact. “I can give you purpose.” 

There was nothing gentle about the way Zarkon held his face. Claws dug into his skin, and Lance was sure he could taste blood mingling with the days-old sweat that ran into his mouth. Still, it was the first truly unforeseeable moment since he had been captured, and Lance was left muttering in confusion at the offer. 

“I know your heart,” Zarkon said, refusing to loosen his grasp. Lance tried to force himself not to whimper aloud at the pain. “I know you doubt your worth. Truly, you will never be valued by your teammates. You will never serve your true purpose under their watch.” 

With that, Zarkon moved his hand away, and Lance fell to floor completely. He could feel the blood welling on his face now, as deep claw wounds let it flow. The smell of rusted metal filled his senses, and he begged whatever god might be listening to just let him die. 

Zarkon, it seemed, had other plans. 

“But I can give you the power you need to serve that purpose. I can give you the might to overcome any who would stand in the way of it. Here, you would have the recognition you deserve,” he said, and his voice was too loud, too omnipresent for Lance to evade. Zarkon stepped back, motioning to the guards, who pulled Lance to his feet despite that fact that he could hardly stand. 

“And,” Zarkon added, approaching Lance once more. He wrapped a hand around Lance's neck, tightening his grip just enough that Lance could feel the sting of his claws just beginning to prick the sensitive skin there. Zarkon smiled. “I can give you the power to take revenge on those who have kept it from you.” 

A sudden and searing heat wrapped around Lance's throat, closing it off completely. For a moment he could not speak, couldn't breathe or even see as his every sense gave out. There was nothing but silent darkness, and the feeling of relief as his pain finally stopped. Then he was blinking his eyes open again, still standing in front of the Galra warlord, only now, he did so on his own strength. 

For the first time in days, Lance could raise his bound hands to touch his face, and found that every wound there had healed. No longer did he feel famished and weak; rather, he felt as if he could take both of his guards to the ground, even  _ without _ the use of his arms. He rolled his shoulders back, feeling the strength coursing through him, the energy crackling in his veins. 

He did not charge forward, though. He did nothing to repay the guards for the way they had abused him. Instead he stood, drawing deep, filling breaths for the first time in far too long, and listened. 

“There is no limit to what I can offer you, Lance McClain,” Zarkon said, satisfaction already dripping from his tone. “I offer an end to this war, and end to the life of hardship your princess and her paladins would have you live. I offer the chance to live amongst the rulers of the universe, and take everything you want from those beneath you.” He stepped back, waving toward a massive screen suspended from the wall above his throne, and Lance's breath caught in his throat as an image of his own family flickered into existence on the monitor. 

“Allura cannot guarantee their safety. Your leader, the champion - he could do nothing to stop their deaths, if they were caught in the crosshairs of war. Only I can give you that assurance. Only I can give you true freedom from fear.” 

Lance stood stone-still, eyeing Zarkon with a torrid mix of emotions. Anger and hatred for all that the Galra empire had done simmered in his chest, souring his stomach and making anything he had to say sound meaningless and hollow. Everything in Lance's heart screamed at him to spit in the face of everything being offered to him, to remember the reason he had pledged to protect the universe. 

But the photo on the screen behind Zarkon silenced that inner voice, quieting it until logic could intercede. If he did not agree, Zarkon would most certainly kill him, but also kill his family without hesitation. In death, Lance would have no way to protect them, or anyone else that he cared for. Despite the way his chest ached at the thought of his own weakness, he thought of his teammates, his only friends for the last few months in the frightening darkness of deep space. 

At least with what Zarkon was offering, he could exercise some control over what happened to all of them. At least if he complied, he might have a chance to save more lives than just his own. 

He looked down from the screen on high, back to where Zarkon stood awaiting his response. 

“Promise me you won't kill the other paladins,” he said, as firmly as he could manage. Zarkon hissed a laugh. 

“You are in no position to bargain yet, boy.” 

“Swear it,” Lance said, unfazed, “and I'll help you get Voltron back. Don't, and I'll leave this room dead, one way or another.” He looked to either side of himself, hoping he sounded more certain of his intentions than he felt. The guards sneered at him, weapons still at the ready, but Zarkon stepped into their space, signaling them to withdraw. 

“Very well, Lance,” he said, yellow eyes glinting as he reached for the lock that held Lance's metal collar and shackles in place. He broke it with a single motion, letting it fall with an alarming clattering sound to the floor between them. He placed a clawed hand on Lance's chest. “Repeat this oath:  _ Vrepit Sa.” _

Lance swallowed, bit his lips together for a moment, and nodded. 

“Vrepit Sa.” 


End file.
